Failed
by La Halfeline
Summary: T-bag sees how bringing a mobster to crack up is a long-drawn-out job... but it makes the game even more entertaining, doesn't it?


**Failed !**

**Written for the round of November 2007 on the forum "La Lanterne Fringante"**

**Pairing : T-bag/Abruzzi**

**Theme : Failed**

After more than a week on the run, they had managed to slip through the federal net and had reached the security of Mexico. The owner of the very small country house where the six individuals had squeezed would have a great surprise when he came back. The Fox River fugitives were more or less patiently waiting for things to "die down", as Michael would say, before trying an incursion in the remotest part of Utah in order to retrieve the good, late Westmorland's money. Though this safe retreat abroad could have looked like a vacation on the first day, the promiscuity in the bungalow had slowly but surely begun to get on everybody's nerves.

"COME ON, BABY, BE MY BAD BOOOYFRIEND!"

T-bag was probably 78% responsible for the tension that was becoming palpable between the ex-cons. At this moment for example, he was evincing his vexation at it being his turn to cook by turning up the sound of the small crappy transistor, which had soon been used as a juke box by the Alabamian despite the fact it was supposed to keep them informed of the situation's evolution. He was singing at the top of his lungs while flipping his crêpes, drowning out the voice of the poor singer who had no chance against T-bag's singing exercises.

"I wanna hear you… CALL OUT my name ! I wanna see you… burn up in flaaames!"

The paedophile wasn't settling for a simple vocal performance, by the way. He was adding the hint of a dance, involving much swaying. Considering the seething expression on C-note's face, it could be assumed that Bagwell had one minute and twenty seconds left before having his skull smashed in with his own frying pan. Michael, for his part, seemed perfectly stunned, having wordlessly collapsed in a pouffe. Sucre appeared to be worried about him…

Abruzzi was settled down on his mattress, and was the only one not to show his nerves were slowly torn into pieces. Hiding behind the small Bible he had found in the meagre bookcase, he was discreetly looking up at Theodore's jeans, which were slightly puckering up and smoothing out on the supple roundness of his rump with each of his movement. His fingers were clutching the handle of the pan ; the jerks of his wrist, flipping the crêpes, troubled John just a tiny bit. He thought with dread that T-bag's numerous attempts to make him swing both ways might have borne fruit.

Having rolled all the crêpes, the murderer brought the first one to the Fish, holding it out to his face in a particularly lewd manner and humming :

"So ripe so sweet… come suck it and see…"  
At that point Lincoln made a move to strangle him to death. But Bagwell used his pan as a burning hot shield, getting a curse from the big brother, glancing mischievously over his shoulder to John.

"… but watch out Daddy, I sting like a bee…"  
Abruzzi went livid when he saw T-bag's hand slide languorously along the handle of his cooking-and-fighting utensil, every finger rubbing conscientiously against the shaft. The sociopath found himself encouraged to carry on his little display of provocation. He chucked the pan on the gas stove and approached the mobster with his usual swagger, grabbing a crêpe on the way.

"I know some tricks I swear will give you the beeends…"  
T-bag snatched the holy writ from Abruzzi's hands, inadvertently throwing it sizzling on the frying pan, and ended up straddling his thighs, letting his predatory brown eyes stare at the mafioso while sucking the extremity of his rolled crêpe. The respectable godfather folded his arms and challenged him with a look he wanted icy, though it was actually fighting not to melt down.

"Fuck you, Theodore !" he snarled.  
Said Theodore just had a lewd smile and dropped the course of the music to answer with his harsh, lascivious voice :

"Mmmh, you'd like that, eh Johnny-boy ? Fuckin' me from behind and showin' me you're the master here, moaning my christian name end-less-ly.…"  
As he was saying that, T-bag swayed his hips closer to his, slow and dirty. Abruzzi's face reached a new degree of pallor ; for a split second Bagwell thought he looked like a rabbit right before the collision with the tank truck. He soon found himself tossed aside and John went and locked himself in the small bathroom with a snarl.

He had failed this time. But he was making progress…


End file.
